CHAPTER SIX - THE WEIGHT OF RESPONSIBILITY

Taylor felt the weight of what she had come to realise was a gang war—between Penguin and a villain she found out was the Black Mask; few of the runners she had taken out had been his men—pressing down on her shoulders. She had saved a few lives in the past two months, but it wasn't enough. It never was.

Gotham didn't need another bystander. It needed someone who could fight back, someone who could make the city's predators fear the shadows. Taylor wasn't sure if she could be that person without her powers, but the fire in her chest burned as fiercely as the blazes she'd found herself rescuing people from these days.

It seemed said gang war wasn’t just posturing anymore. It was a battle for control, and the people caught in the middle were paying the price.

. . . . .

Taylor had heard whispers on the streets: Black Mask was stepping up his game, and the recent surge in violence wasn’t just a coincidence. The weapons flooding Gotham’s underworld, the territorial skirmishes—it all pointed back to him. She didn’t have proof yet, but her gut told her she was onto something.

The problem was, digging into someone like Black Mask wasn’t easy. His top men were disciplined, his operations shrouded in secrecy, and his reach extended far beyond the Narrows. Without her Shard, Taylor felt like she was working blind, her insects no more extensions of her senses.

Still, she spent her nights trailing Black Mask’s men, watching from the shadows as they moved shipments and collected payments. Her baton hung heavy at her side, a far cry from the overwhelming force she used to wield. Every step closer she got to the truth felt like a risk, and she was growing impatient.

It was that impatience that led her to a warehouse on the city’s east side. She’d followed a lead there—a low-level enforcer bragging at a bar about a “big score” coming through. Taylor knew it was reckless to go in alone, especially with her powers still unreliable, but she couldn’t shake the need to act.

The warehouse was quiet when she arrived, its looming structure casting long shadows in the moonlight. Taylor crept through an open side door, her footsteps muffled against the concrete floor. Stacks of crates lined the walls, some marked with obscure shipping labels, others unmarked entirely.

She moved carefully, her swarm fanning out to scout ahead. The insects struggled to maintain cohesion, her control over them slipping at the worst moments. But, they gave her enough of a picture to confirm her suspicions—this wasn’t just any warehouse. Crates filled with stacks of cash, sleek rifles, compact devices that buzzed with unfamiliar energy, and what looked like pieces of powered armor. Her stomach twisted. This wasn't just any smuggling operation—this was high-tech weaponry, the kind of gear that could make an already deadly city even worse.

As she edged closer to one of the crates, she heard voices approaching. Panic flared in her chest as she ducked behind a stack of boxes. Two men entered the room, laughing and talking about their boss’s latest plans.

Taylor’s breath caught as she overheard fragments of their conversation. Something about shipments moving “south” and “replacements” for recent losses. She was right. Black Mask was ramping up his operations, likely preparing for a larger power grab.

She waited for them to pass, her mind racing. This was bigger than she’d expected, and she needed to get out of there before she was caught. But as she turned to leave, her baton clipped the edge of a metal crate, the sound echoing like a gunshot in the quiet space.

The men stopped, their conversation cutting off mid-sentence. “Who’s there?” one of them barked, his hand already reaching for his weapon.

Taylor cursed under her breath, her grip tightening on her baton, and bolted for the door, her footsteps pounding against the floor. Behind her, the men shouted, their footsteps closing in. Her swarm scattered in an attempt to create a distraction, and though said attempt was feeble, it was enough to allow Taylor to burst out of the warehouse and into the night.

She didn’t stop moving until she reached the Narrows. Her place of residence wasn’t much—a crumbling apartment building with more cockroaches than tenants—but it was enough. She climbed the stairs to her unit, her bugs already spreading through the space, checking for anything out of place.

When she was satisfied it was clear, she stepped inside and locked the door behind her.

The room was dim, lit only by the flickering neon light outside her window, painting the room in hues of blue and red. Her baton rested on the coffee table, alongside her makeshift mask, some basic supplies she’d managed to scavenge since arriving in Gotham, and her notebook filled with hastily scribbled notes—names, locations, and patterns she’d pieced together over weeks of careful observation.

It wasn’t much, but it was hers.

Taylor sat on the worn-out couch, her legs pulled up beneath her, leaned her head back against the cushions, exhaling slowly. The adrenaline that had carried her through the night’s close call was fading, leaving behind a bone-deep weariness. Her body ached in places she hadn’t realized she’d strained, and her mind buzzed with questions she couldn’t yet answer.

Her swarm drifted lazily through the apartment, a faint hum of movement that reminded her of what she still had, even if her control wasn’t what it used to be. The familiar sensation was oddly comforting, grounding her in a way she hadn’t expected.

But the weight of everything pressed down on her. The gang war, the Penguin, Black Mask—Gotham felt like a storm she was trying to weather with nothing more than a leaky umbrella. And then there was the Bat Family, always watching, always lurking on the edges of her awareness. Robin’s warning still echoed in her mind, a challenge she couldn’t back down from, even if she wanted to.

She rubbed her eyes, willing the exhaustion away. Rest was a luxury she could barely afford, but for now, just for a moment, she allowed herself to breathe. The city would still be there when she got up, just as broken as it had been yesterday. But for now, she could pretend that the shadows weren’t creeping closer.

. . . . .

Miles away, in the penthouse of one of Gotham’s towering skyscrapers, Roman Sionis—Black Mask—stood by a window, staring down at the city. His mask gleamed under the dim light, his expression unreadable.

“She is making waves,” his lieutenant said, standing a few feet behind him. “Took out a few of our runners this week. No casualties, but word’s spreading. People are starting to talk.”

Sionis didn’t reply immediately. He swirled the glass of bourbon in his hand, watching the amber liquid catch the light.

“She’s not from here,” he said finally. His voice was calm, almost detached. “Someone new playing vigilante. Someone who doesn’t understand the rules.”

The lieutenant shifted uncomfortably. “You want us to deal with her?”

“No.” Sionis turned, his gaze sharp. “Not yet. Let her dig herself in deeper. The Bat won’t tolerate her for long, and when he turns on her, we’ll clean up the mess.”

The man nodded, though he didn’t look convinced. “What if she comes after us again?”

“Then we’ll show her what happens when you cross Black Mask,” Sionis said, his voice cold.